


Bloodlust

by Jennifer-Oksana (JenniferOksana)



Category: The X-Files
Genre: BDSM, Blood, Desire, F/M, Light Masochism, Love Bites, Mind Games, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Romance, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-18 11:21:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5926609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenniferOksana/pseuds/Jennifer-Oksana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blood, masochism, mind games, and sex. The disturbing sort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bloodlust

_One. Two. Skip a few. Ninety-nine. One hundred._

Underneath her skin is thick red blood, as warm and salty as her sweat that stings my tongue and my eyes right now very much in the now now now, and it’s warm, my God she’s fire against my body against my heart against my skin. I try to swim into reality again, where I will regret this in the morning one more time, but for now– I can’t wake up. And I don’t fucking want to wake up. All I want is her blood.

“Yes,” I hear buzzing in my ears. Should be her voice, but her voice doesn’t buzz like that, like a tinny phone receiver, like a cell phone about to break up. The sound is all screwed up. It’s fuzz and buzz and beat and I feel her press against me and I need her nails digging into my shoulder like that, God, just like that–

She smiles, a strange and horrible smile that has nothing to do with happiness. It awes me how distant the woman I love during the day, in her slim suits and sober attitudes, is from this night creature. Scully by night is flame and flower and blood, and as merciless and terrible as any of those things.

And I am in thrall to her.

Her lips meet mine, in a kiss that burns my mouth, and we are in it hot and heavy again, moaning and shifting and rolling in ways that only drive thought further into the buzzing static that has captured Scully’s voice and Scully’s soul and left me with this dark and dangerous thing.

And yet I cannot stop. The pain has become a part of the game, as much as the silence, the secrecy, and the sheer bloodlust that drives us to secrecy, silence, and pain, mingled in the sweat and ecstasy of animals that means death, underneath all the frantic delight.

What do I offer her? I don’t understand what she sees in me as her little teeth cross my throat and she bites down, pulling skin together and drawing blood. And my God, I want her to keep going, to never stop this ritual of agony and self-hatred and adoration and heat and blood. She looks at me with unknowable, crystalline eyes, and we don’t stop.

_Four. Five. Big fat jive. Six. Seven. Go to Heaven._

Her teeth graze across my belly, enough to ache but not enough to draw blood. I whimper, because I like it. I need the pain or the blood or whatever demon offering is enough to tell her how sorry I am for all of it. I am so sorry, for fallen angels on her earth, my earth, our earth, and we let them go in our ignorance. I’m sorry for hundreds of files, paper and ink, transubstantiated into blood and spirit and tears. The files are our Gethsemane, our Calvary, and perhaps our road to Emmaus. But we’re the only ones gorging on each other in communion, clawing towards an exaltation of sheer bloody flagellation of glorious martyrdom.

We will fight. We may die. And if but ourselves will understand the full value of it all, and this shock and pain is what sends us into the other’s arms over and over again, in a burst of fear and rage that becomes desire– what, then?

“He tasted my blood, and I tasted his,” a fearful shadow whispers to me out of a fever dream. “After that–”

And my woman-child-woman-angel draws blood, finally, in our passionate, desperate fight that seems more pathetic than passionate, more lonely than loving. She breaks the skin right around the shoulder, near where she first drew blood. In a daze, I shy back, the survival instinct overriding the one that wants to be hurt.

My hands convulsively grab her, pulling her away from the injury, while my fever-stricken brain and the rest of my lust-drenched body shivers, urgent, wanting it to keep going, to never stop. And in my ears, the noise of my pulse shakes my ears and rattles my brain.

Then, from depths only as deep as hell, she looks up at me, and I’m almost shocked by the recognition.

“Mulder?” she asks. It’s Scully, the real and daylight Scully, the woman who never mourns or lusts or shares my bed or her griefs. She’s always fine. She’s a safe haven in my life. And yet–

I know what she’s asking. We can opt out of this right now, stop the spinning in my head, the tinny sound of her voice, the pain and scars and sex and insanity that’s consuming us right here right now. If I want to.

For a moment, I’m even tempted. She is so beautiful, so pristinely good and strong. Wouldn’t it be something, if, for a change, if I repaid good with good, with gentleness and beauty? Could I kiss away the scars I’d left and those I’d let them leave? Could it ever be something good?

Then I pull her head back by the hair. A look of tranced-out, mindless bliss crosses her eyes, and she licks her very dry lips. No and no again. She doesn’t want me, except as some sort of demon, some sort of penance to satisfy a deep-seated masochistic guilt or something. We’ve found some sort of understanding here, in this now. And when our lips meet again, roughly, I crush her against me. This is not the Scully I greet in the morning, not the Scully I long for in romance-novel dreams. This is a shadow, worn and desolate and needy. At least what she needs is me.

But she’ll do. And what does she want? My blood my body my anything my everything and I, God help me, will give it to her.

_*Seven. Eight. Lay it straight. Nine. Ten. Do it again.*_

It’s no-holds-barred now. I offer her my wrists, my heart, my everything to satiate the terrible hunger of hers that I see in her eyes. I feed into the madness, the way she feeds into mine. We infect each other with an affliction, an addiction that is so real and so pathetic that I can’t think of it now as she climbs on top of me, stripping away the last vestiges of her clothing.

“Oh, yes,” I say, closing my eyes. Oh, God, yes, if nothing else, if I wake up and have only scars, yes. Her lips cross mine, and her hands slip down my chest, leaving a trail of pale, invisible fire that throbs in my chest as I reach up blindly to touch something of her, to caress the pale, rounded curves that belong to my lover.

Lust binds us together now, bloodlust, in a fever dream of despair and delight as I slide her down my body, feeling the friction build as we move against each other, until finally I am inside of her, pressing my cock as deep as I can. I need this badly, but when I open my eyes, I think of the blood I originally wanted, blood that means so much as a symbol, so much as an actual fluid. The blood is the life, exactly what it means and I–

Am thinking too much. While I’m thrusting up into the woman I want more than anything, while she bends down and kisses me sporadically, peppering my face with love bites, and my hands reach up further, trying to slow her down, because she’s moving so fast and if she doesn’t stop I’ll come and to hell with her then. I feel the smooth  
skin of her back, and the fibers of muscles underneath, rippling. And I almost imagine the blood, throbbing.

I just have to make it all instinct, heat and movement and my God, my God, it feels good. Why do I think so many stupid things right now when it’s all about fucking her until we’re both raw, and my hands are around her hips, moving her, my fingers look like bruises on her hips, I don’t care, I squeeze tighter.

So we keep going, locked into a game that twists pain and passion and makes them a rose of divinely sanctioned masochism. It shouldn’t be like this, it will be like this, now and forever, as we keep going towards towards towards towards. It shouldn’t be like this, but will I stop? Will we ever just stop?

The blood is the life is the blood of the life that I hold in my hands and I’m thinking again and I want it to stop now but I’m going too fast, too fast to do anything more than follow the path centrifugal force has laid out for me–

She screams, a hoarse, passionate cry that signals her approval, and as I follow her, coming hard and fast and filthy, I almost scream. But instead, I just listen to my own breathing, and the sound of my heartbeat. We come down slowly, privately, and I feel sick to my stomach for the five thousandth time. Oh, Scully, Scully, God–

I stare at her back, the lines of her body becoming clearer as my eyes adjust or as the planet rotates closer to the sun, I’m not sure which but it could be any of the above. I’ve lost us our world, our sugar-spun nightmare world that gave me any right to hold her with me. She’ll leave me sooner or later, and find some other cross to bear.

“Scully,” I say into the silent night air. But is Scully really here? Am I? Who are we when we claw at each other, overwhelmed by lust and blood and pain and need in the dark of night? Are we the same people we wake up as in the morning?

She rolls over and throws out her arm, opening her hand just slightly. Considering it’s Scully, it’s a peace offering. I take her hand, and knead it in my own. Then we lay there, silent and unable to do more than breathe as morning comes.


End file.
